


Jazz is the Big Brother of the Blues

by Barriss



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:03:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barriss/pseuds/Barriss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes needs to get away from England in order to protect his friends and dispose of Jim Moriarty's crime syndicate, so he seeks the help of an "old friend". But he doesn't forget about the people he needs to protect, so he uses other means to look out for them. How will Sherlock cope with a new life, new feelings and the discoveries he makes as he spies on his friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to give a very special thanks to Whytejigsaw for being an awesome beta-reader, and for all of her help and wonderful suggestions. I most definitely would never have posted this, had it not been for her. So, thank you!

**Chapter 1**

                Sherlock Holmes was dead. It was on everyone’s lips, every TV station, and every front page: “Suicide of fake genius – Fraudulent detective takes his own life.” His friends were mourning, his enemies were rejoicing, and the press was having a figurative field day.

                Then there was Molly Hooper – 31 years old, forensic pathologist at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, single, and one of the few people who knew the truth: Sherlock Holmes was alive.

                She not only knew it, she had ensured it.

                When the world’s only consulting detective, longtime friend and love of her life came and confessed that she mattered to him, that she was trusted ( _who knew?_ ) and requested her help in faking his suicide, could she have refused? No. She couldn’t have.  When the man of her dreams gave her such an important task, that he could give to no one else, literally putting his life in her hands ( _legal implications aside)_ , she would not ( _could not_ ) deny him her help.

                But that was who she was, wasn’t it? Molly Hooper liked helping people, she enjoyed being nice. Doing good made her happy.

                Then she would remember her mother’s words: “You are a fool, Molly. Being too kind is not an asset, it is a disadvantage, and sooner or later, it will always come back and bite you in the arse.” And most of the time, it did. And she would suffer. But Molly Hooper, despite being a kind fool, was also a strong woman. Whenever she would trip and fall, she always got back on her feet, brushed off the dirt and kept on walking.

                But at the moment, she was wondering if walking on was actually possible anymore.

                She was sitting in her small apartment, on the sofa she had inherited from her mother ( _horrible shade of green, but comfy as all hell_ ), her feet tucked underneath her thighs, a hot cup of tea ( _milk, two sugars, as always_ ) in her hands, staring at the telly, but not really seeing the screen. She was replaying the events that had occurred in the last couple of weeks since the “death” of the world’s only consulting detective.

                Right after the Fall, Molly had had to face Sherlock’s colleague, Dr. John Watson, look the man in the eye and confirm the death of his best friend. Crying wasn’t difficult, she had wanted to cry; luckily ( _sarcasm_ ) the need to sob uncontrollably into poor John’s chest while screaming “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” was overwhelming enough to not necessitate any real acting on her part, though the meaning behind the words was different than what he had probably imagined.

                She hated lying. To John, to his and Sherlock’s kind, motherly landlady Mrs. Hudson, to Detective Inspector Lestrade, to anyone who would ask – she had lied to them all. She had lied at the morgue, she had lied at the wake, and she had lied at the funeral. 

                But Molly had to, didn’t she? She had promised _him_. The great Sherlock Holmes had trusted _her_ with this task. The love of her life had finally asked for _her_ help. What else could she have done? It was these thoughts that kept her going: _It was all for him._

_And now… now he was leaving._

                Earlier that day Molly had received a text from Sherlock, announcing his departure from London, the time and location for their final meeting, and a set of instructions on how to arrive at said meeting. He had taken extra precautions in ensuring that no one could be able to trace anything back to her, making sure that she would remain safe when he would no longer be around too look after her. It made her want to cry. He may not have had romantic feelings for her ( _and probably never would_ ), but he cared, and coming from _him_ , that meant quite a lot. 

                Molly looked at the clock on the wall – 9:45PM. It was almost time. She placed the barely touched cup of tea on the small coffee table that was located between the sofa and the telly, put on her jacket, and left the flat.

                The location of the meeting was Holland Park, and the time of was 2am. The instructions said she was to switch between various modes of transportation, making a few quick stops at various shops in between. Basically, she had to roam around all of London for 4 hours so as not to draw attention to herself – she wasn’t looking forward to it, hell, she didn’t even know why they were meeting in the first place, but it wasn’t like she had any say in the matter.

                4 hours later she was at the entrance of Holland Park. The darkness and total lack of people made Molly considerably nervous, but Sherlock had assured her that he had had his Homeless Network keep an eye on her at all times, so that she wouldn’t get into any unforeseen trouble. She smiled to herself and looked into the darkness; she could see neither hide nor hair of him, or anyone for that matter, but she knew she was not alone. She bravely stepped forward, entering the deserted park.

                Molly walked around the park for a while, admiring the scenery as she went along. Even though it was a cold spring night, the skies were clear and a beautiful half-moon was illuminating the path before her. Had the circumstances been different, she would think it a very romantic setting.

                She reached an area covered by large trees when she heard the sound of footsteps coming from behind. She stopped and waited until the person halted just a few meters away from where she stood. Molly could recognize him even by his footsteps now. ( _Wow!_ ) 

                This was it. Maybe the last time she would ever see him again. She didn’t want to turn around just yet; she wanted to prolong their time together even if just for another minute; she was selfish that way.  

                “Molly – “ his deep baritone voice echoed in the empty park; it gave her goosebumps. 

                Knowing she could avoid it no longer, she took a steady breath and slowly turned to face Sherlock Holmes.

                And there he stood. 6ft tall, slimmer than ever ( _he had lost weight again_ ), dark curls which fell just above his eyes – his crystal-clear light blue eyes that she loved so much – dressed in his typical suit and long coat. _Christ, he looked beautiful in the moonlight_.

                “Sherlock –“ she breathed out, any other words eluding her;  not like that was anything new, she couldn’t remember a time when she could actually make a coherent sentence in front of the man. She cursed herself and her stupid insecurities.

                “I see you’ve followed my instructions, well done. See anything interesting at that pound shop in Hoxton?” he asked nonchalantly.

                Molly almost asked how he knew where she’d been, but then remembered who she was talking to; he probably deduced that from her trainers or something. She merely smiled; _damn her insufficient grasp of the English language!_

                Luckily he didn’t wait for an answer and continued, “I shall be leaving London in a few hours’ time. Do try to keep a low profile for a while. Don’t take any more holidays, it might cause suspicion, and if possible, avoid meeting John, Mrs. Hudson, or Lastrade for the time being.” He paused for the briefest moment, but immediately resumed his speech, “I’ll contact you if the need arises. Any questions?”

                Molly gaped at him. _That was it?! This was why he had brought her here? That was all he had to say, after everything that had happened?!_ It’s not like she had expected a heartwarming goodbye or anything, but he could have at least tried to be a little less...himself?

                She asked the first thing that popped into her mind. “W-where are you going?” _And with minimal stuttering, good job Molly!_

                “America, Los Angeles, I’m meeting someone there who will be extremely helpful in assisting me with my plans to bring down Moriarty’s criminal web.”

                “Oh.” Molly hadn’t known he had friends in America ( _‘friends’ was probably a strong word, though_ ). “Who are you meeting? I mean, if that’s okay, you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t –”

                “Irene Adler” he answered simply.

                She froze.

_Irene Adler?!_

_The Woman?!_

_THE Woman?!_

                The one woman who had ever managed to get under Sherlock Holmes’ skin, the one woman who had managed to crawl her way up and touch, if only slightly, this man’s heart?!  She had read John’s blog and also heard some of the details regarding her case from him, so she knew exactly what Irene Adler was, and what she was capable of.

                Molly felt sick to her stomach. It was bad enough that Sherlock was going to be almost 5500 miles away from her, but he was also going to be there with The Woman. She felt her eyes burning, tears threatening to fall. She was jealous, sad and disappointed.

                Fixing her gaze on the ground, so as to at least try to hide her shining eyes (though she knew hiding anything from Sherlock Holmes was next to impossible), Molly asked the one question she felt was the most important and also the most terrifying: “Will I – will we ever see each other again?”

                She still wasn’t looking at him, but he could feel his gaze upon her.

                He took a deep breath. “I… don’t know.”

                And she lost it. She felt her whole body start shaking, fear and anguish shooting through her entire being, and tears – big fat tears falling from her eyes like rain. Why? Why was he so cruel? How could this man so easily break her heart into a million pieces without even being aware of it? It wasn’t fair. _He_ wasn’t fair.

                “Molly?” she heard him call out, a hint of confusion and alarm in his voice. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

                She lifted her head and shook it, managing to whisper a weak “I’m fine.”

                Sherlock furrowed his brows. “I find that highly unlikely, Molly Hooper. You are clearly upset. Though, I honestly can’t imagine why. You should be happy; you will finally have your boring life and dull routine back. Of course you’ll still have to hide the fact that I’m not dead from every person you meet, but after a while I’m sure people will forget and you won’t be forced to – “  

                “SHERLOCK –“ Molly blurted, anger slowly bubbling up within her. Ignoring the fact that he had just called her life boring( _not that she could disagree, but it was rude nonetheless_ ), him assuming that she would be happy about him leaving infuriated her. He was an idiot. A fucking idiot is what he was! “Fucking idiot...”

                “Sorry, what?!” Sherlock looked taken aback. “Did you just call me a – ?”

                “I did,” Molly replied, not bothering to let him finish. She looked him in the eyes, her own were still stinging, but she was no longer crying.

                Seeing the looks of shock, then confusion, and finally anger settle on Sherlock’s face made Molly feel slightly proud of herself.  He was clearly trying to figure out why anyone in the world would think him an idiot _(he probably thought it absurd, the arrogant prick)._

                Before he could ask anything else, Molly, suddenly fueled by an unexpected surge of audacity, took a few steps forward, stopping in front of him at arm’s reach.

                He was clearly puzzled by her behavior, but did not stop her.

                “Sherlock?”

                “Molly?”

                “Can I kiss you?”

                The look on Sherlock’s face was, for lack of a better word, priceless. His eyebrows had shot a mile up, his eyes had become as wide as saucers, his mouth slightly opened in shock and his whole body became as stiff as a board. He blinked several times, in rapid succession, closing his mouth, opening it to speak, and then closing it again.

                “W – Why?” he finally asked.

_Oh, look who was doing the stuttering now._

                Molly thought about what to say for a few seconds. She knew she had entered No Man’s Land, and the way she would go about this would either make or break their relationship forever, but she was feeling braver than she had ever felt before, so just for this one last time, she would dominate the conversation. “Because you owe me,” was her answer.

_Let’s see how you respond to that._

                Sherlock furrowed his brows, his eyes darting over her, trying to no doubt deduce if she was joking or if she had finally lost her mind. “I don’t understand” he forcibly replied.

                “Of course you don’t.” Despite herself, Molly grinned at his confusion, screwing with him was a lot more fun than she had imagined. “You owe me, Sherlock Holmes! You owe me a goddamn lot! And not just for helping you with the Fall, but for every time I went behind my boss’ back to give you access to the lab, for the dozens of times I broke protocol and allowed you to muck about with the corpses in the morgue, for each body part I gave you without permission, for all of the extra hours I spent helping you with your bizarre experiments, and for every fucking cup of coffee I went out of my way to get you. Every. Fucking. Day!” She had become genuinely angry by the end of her tirade. _Who did this bastard think he was, treating her like that?_

                “I – “ Sherlock tried to reply, but shut his mouth almost immediately. He didn’t look at her; apparently there was something very intriguing about the pebbles underneath his feet. After about a minute of the most awkward silence, he finally spoke. “I am sorry, Molly” he said weakly, “I didn’t think I was that much of a bother to you. I sincerely apologize.” He looked like a little kid apologizing for eating candy before supper. It was annoying, yet somehow incredibly endearing.

                And now he was making her look like the bad guy – _great, just grea_ t. _Damn him for making her feel guilty for finally standing up for herself._  “Listen,” she added, more gently this time, “I am willing to forgive you, for everything, if – if you just do this for me, if you just let me kiss you.”

                “Molly, I really don’t see how me kissing you could possibly – “

                “Oh for the love of God, Sherlock!” Molly was becoming exasperated, and she felt her eyes burning up again. “Please! Please, just give me this. You’re leaving, I might never see you again, can’t you just do this one thing for me?  Just –“ she broke off, tears once again falling from her eyes, “just let me have this. Please!”

                He looked at her for what seemed like decades, probably trying to comprehend what the hell was going on, but he also had an odd look in his eyes, it looked a bit like sadness, but you could never know with Sherlock Holmes. He removed his hands from his pockets where he had kept them for the duration of their discussion and placed them behind his back, his body straightening awkwardly. “Very well, if… you insist.”

                Molly’s eyes widened and she gulped. Shit, he was actually going to do it. ‘ _Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!_ _NO! Don’t falter now Molly Hooper, you’ll probably never get another chance like this ever again!’_ she thought _._ He looked so uncomfortable it was painful to watch, but it was already too late to back down now. She inhaled deeply and slowly began closing the distance between them.

                She stopped directly in front of him, they were so close she could smell him, and Molly noted he had started smoking again. She looked up at him, admiring those stunning blue eyes and her gaze briefly settled on his lips, before quickly returning to his eyes once more. “Bend down” she whispered.

                He blinked. “Sorry?”

                “You’re…too tall. I – I can’t reach.” She was breathing heavily now, the weight of the situation finally catching up to her. Molly felt her whole body grow warm, and her heart was ready to burst out of her chest. She was nervous, but also ridiculously excited.

                Before he could oblige, she took him by the lapels of his coat and gently pulled him down towards her. He was a breath away from her, and he was so beautiful; she felt weak, yet strangely empowered. She cocked her head, stood on her tippy toes, and closed the remaining distance between them, touching his lips with her own.

                The kiss wasn’t a passionate one; no tongue, no biting, no licking, she didn’t even move her lips. It was the most innocent kiss Molly had ever given, yet it was by far the most intense. Neither had closed their eyes, they just stared each other in the eyes, lips locked, her hands moving from Sherlock’s lapels to rest on his chest, his remaining firm behind his back. It was awkward, but it was also oddly sweet.

                After who knows how long, Molly gently broke the kiss. She looked into his eyes for another moment before fixing them on her hands that were still resting on his chest. She slowly removed them and took a few steps backwards.

                Her whole being was in complete disarray. She still felt the tingling in her lips and fingertips, her heart was beating erratically, she was shaking like a leaf, and the need to burst into tears was almost overwhelming. Molly tried her best not to show how disheveled she was, so she smiled.

                “Thank you, Sherlock” she managed weakly.

                He had since then straightened up, his hands still behind his back, and his face as expressionless as ever. His eyes however, told another story. She had never seen them like that before. The way he looked at her was almost all-consuming; it seemed like a strange mix between confusion, anger, sadness and mirth. It was the oddest thing ever.

                “You’re… welcome.” His voice was still steady and calm.

_Of course it would be._

                “Well, I guess I should get going then, you probably still have lots to take care of before you leave.” Molly was still smiling, even though she was a right mess inside. She just wanted to get away from there as fast as possible.

                “I do, actually. Apparently leaving the country incognito is not something one does with substantial ease. Nothing particularly arresting, mind you. A fake ID, a bit of extra money, some very willing participants and all done; to use a term adequate to our current location: it was a walk in the park. ”

                This time she smiled genuinely. Sherlock trying to make jokes was definitely different, as one would expect. But she thought that maybe he was trying to ease her mind a little, in his own odd way, and somehow that made her hurt even more. She needed to leave.

                “Well then…” she slowly began walking backwards, her smile as wide as ever, “I guess this is it. I hope everything works out for the best, though knowing you, I’m positive it will.” She looked at him one last time, burning the image of him as he was at that moment into her mind forever; her eyes were already stinging with tears – _again_ – and in a broken voice she uttered the dreaded final words.

                “Goodbye Sherlock Holmes.”

                She immediately did a 180 and broke into a light jog, not capable of withstanding the pain any longer. She could faintly hear “Goodbye Molly Hooper” from behind her, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. Molly was running by the time she reached the park entrance, and without bothering to check her surroundings for anything suspicious, she hailed a taxi.

                She jumped in and practically forced the address to her flat out of her mouth. The driver had asked her if she was all right the moment she stepped into the car, and understandably so. Molly was huffing and puffing as if she had been running a 10 mile marathon, her hair was in complete disarray and her tear stained face didn’t help either. Molly quickly dismissed the man’s worries. She forced herself not to cry anymore, she rubbed her hands, she bit her lip, she grinded her teeth, and shed not one more tear until the taxi dropped her off.

                Molly fumbled with her keys, barely managing to open the door; she hadn’t noticed her hands were shaking so badly. When she found herself safe inside the comfort of her living room, she finally broke down. She fell on her sofa and she cried. She cried like she had never done before. She cursed herself and her stupidity, she cursed her overwhelming love for the world’s only consulting detective, she cursed her weak heart, and she cursed the kiss they shared.

                The stupid fucking kiss!

                She knew it would end up like this, she knew, yet she ignored her own instinct. It was the biggest mistake of Molly Hooper’s life. The kiss with Sherlock Holmes had damned her forever and she felt like her life had, at that moment, completely ended. She could no longer walk on.   

* * *

 

                Sherlock sat placid in his passenger’s seat aboard a very posh and absurdly expensive personal jet ( _Mycroft had certainly outdone himself this time_ ). Apparently, even his apathetic older brother was not immune to the guilt trip he was subjected to by his revived younger sibling; he made a note to himself to milk that cow for all it was worth.

_‘Flying is boring’_ he thought after a while.

                He looked out the window and all he could see was the never-ending sight of the Atlantic Ocean _(if he had measured correctly, they should be located at approximately 51.37 degrees latitude and -18.89 degrees longitude… approximately)_. Sherlock hated the ocean; it was just so horribly dull and never-changing. To him it was a constant… and Sherlock hated constants.

                He averted his gaze from the horribly uninteresting mass of blue, to concentrate on the more important things in life – himself.

                He was feeling unexpectedly low. Lower than he had been in weeks. As low as on the day of the Fall. Leaving London was more difficult than he had anticipated. Abandoning everything he knew and… cared for, he guessed... was causing him terrible anxiety and dismay. He would no longer be able to directly protect the people in his life, and although Mycroft had more than graciously assumed the role of safeguard for them, Sherlock was still uneasy.

                John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. He cared for these people more than anything, and yet he was a danger to their wellbeing. They were his friends, his family, his world, (and he would deny this to his death) they were more important to him than anything else, even himself, as he so courageously ( _stupidly?_ ) proved it.  

                And then there was Molly Hooper, who knew his secret and who risked her career, maybe even her life, to help him pull his little magic trick. She had been so brave during the whole endeavor; he had been genuinely surprised by her, in a pleasant way. Her loyalty to him was also quite unexpected. He was very aware of the nature of her feelings, but he had never imagined they were at such a level, he was secretly quite flattered.

                He absentmindedly brought his fingers to his lips, but caught his mistake and quickly removed them, firmly placing his hands on his lap. He had tried not to give much thought to the incident in Holland Park from several hours ago. To be perfectly honest, it had been one of the most shocking and unnerving experiences he had ever encountered; it would be beneficial if he just deleted the whole thing for good… beneficial, but in a way selfish on his part.

                For all he was and had said, Sherlock was very aware of how indebted he was to Molly Hooper, and he couldn’t fathom how a simple kiss could possibly be considered repayment for everything he had put the woman through. It was a bit stupid, if you asked him.

                However, he couldn’t deny that the act in itself was somewhat… endearing. And passionate. And… something else. Something that had made him _not_ want to stop. He remembered his hands unclasping behind his back and slowly moving towards her, wanting to pull her close. Fortunately she had broken the kiss before he had been able to make what would surely have been a very terrible mistake.

                He remembered her face after kiss had ended. She looked broken and on the verge of tears, and the way she had run from him like he would bring her nothing but pain and suffering upset Sherlock more than he himself would like to admit. After she had gone, Sherlock cried. He could hardly believe there had been tears falling from his eyes at that moment. The only other time he had cried for real, since becoming an adult, was as he had said his goodbyes to John from atop the roof of St. Bart’s.

                For the two weeks he had been in hiding after the Fall, Molly was something of a lifeline to him. The only person that knew he was alive ( _well, he had told Mycroft after several days, but he obviously didn’t count_ ), the only one he could confide in, the last remaining link to the world of the living. Saying goodbye to her made him feel wretched and more alone than ever, but that was probably what he deserved. He had selfishly put Molly at risk by having her meet him one last time, and he didn’t even know why he had requested this from her. _It couldn’t be… sentiment? Oh God, he was getting softer by the day. Or maybe it was some kind of closure, like officially ending a chapter in one’s life, needing to tie up all loose ends. Yes, that sounded about right. Let’s go with that._

                Whatever the reason, Sherlock didn’t regret having this one last encounter with Molly Hooper. He closed his eyes, letting the image of Molly and their kiss fill his mind. As the jet kept flying towards America and his new life, deep down inside him, in a place he had closed off from the world ever since his mother’s death, something had begun to stir. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. I just wanted to say a quick thank you to everyone who has read, followed, fav’d and reviewed this little fic I’m writing. I really appreciate it.  
> I also would like to give a big thanks to Whytejigsaw for being an awesome beta-reader. Go check out her fics when you have the time, they’re AWESOME!
> 
> WARNING: THERE WILL BE SOME SHERLOCK/IRENE IN THIS CHAPTER, AND A FEW OF THE ONES TO COME. 
> 
> BUT FEAR NOT, THIS IS FIRST AND FOREMOST A SHERLOLLY FIC, SO IF YOU DON’T LIKE SHERENE, PLEASE BEAR WITH IT, BECAUSE I THINK THE ENDING WILL BE WORTH IT... EVEN THOUGH IT’S A LONG WAY’S AWAY.

**Chapter 2**

_‘Dear Lord, what have I done to deserve this?’_ were the thoughts of one lonely gentleman as he disembarked the personal jet he had been forced to fly on, a blistering wave of heat hitting him the moment he set foot on the Los Angeles International Airport runway. Even though it was still spring, the sun was as bright as he had ever seen it, and the temperature much higher than he was comfortable with. He missed London already.

                Sherlock Holmes had never been one for travelling, unless it was for particularly interesting cases that required his expertise in crime solving; murders were preferable, but he would take heists and kidnappings, if the perpetrator was intelligent enough to spark his curiosity, which sadly didn’t happen very often.

                But to his great regret, he had not come to annoyingly sunny L.A. for a case… well, at least not exactly.

                After becoming a so-called fraud, then a fugitive from the law, then jumping off a 4 story building, pretending to die, all in order to save his best friends from being killed by a now dead psychopathic murderous criminal mastermind… well, it was advisable he lay low for a while. That and trying to figure out a way to destroy said mastermind’s web of crime would be much easier without having to watch his back 24/7. As frustrating as it was, he could no longer do his investigations in England.

                He walked on towards the main building, dragging beside him his small suitcase which held the very few belongings he still had to his name: some clothes, a few flash drives containing an array of top secret military files, and a new violin, which were all very generously given to him by his very dear ( _sarcasm_ ) and deliciously guilty older brother. Well, it was the least Mycroft could do after blabbing about his little brother’s entire life to Jim Moriarty, thus giving him the perfect means of manufacturing the detective’s downfall. Sherlock was going to personally make sure his brother would never hear the end of it for the rest of his sorry excuse of a life.

                Sherlock finally entered the airport itself, which to his utter dismay, was packed with the largest array of inferior people he had ever witnessed. He quickly scanned the crowd, observing as he went along 2 accountants, 5 computer programmers, 1 banker, 3 alcoholics, 7 suffering from morbid obesity (one with a severe heart condition, 2 suffering from diabetes, 1 with Cushing's syndrome, 2 with Hypothyroidism and one who was particularly partial to Domino’s Pizza), plus one very audacious gentleman who was carrying 20-30 grams of pure cocaine jammed up his anus. He wondered if security would catch on to that.

                His eyes darted from corner to corner of the airport, taking in as much information as his brain allowed him (though due to the jetlag which had frustratingly began taking its toll on his already exhausted body, information gathering was limited), until they stopped on a familiar figure sitting on a chair in the waiting area, staring absentmindedly out the large windows that provided a very boring view of the runway.

                He approached cautiously, stopping only a few feet away from the object of his interest.

                “Miss Adler,” he announced his arrival.

                Noticing his presence, the Woman looked up at him and smiled. “Mr. Holmes.”

                Neither of them said another word, they simply stared at each other for what Sherlock counted as 1 minute and 32 seconds, time during which he took the opportunity to study her appearance. She was as strikingly beautiful as ever, as any female would ever be: long dark hair pulled up in a fashionable bun, deep blue eyes, alabaster skin and blood red lips; a vision of grace and elegance.

                To Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler was everything a woman should be.

                And also what a woman should never be.

                While remarkably intelligent, she was also frighteningly cunning and sly. A woman who made a living off of sadistic sex and blackmail was far from what one would call a respectable lady. Yet somehow, she still managed to make him respect her. _Cunning and sly indeed!_

                The Woman rose slowly from her chair, eyes never leaving his for a second, and with mildly exaggerated sway of the hips, strutted towards where he stood, all the while wearing a toothy grin on her face.

                He gulped, following her movements with his eyes, mesmerized.

                She halted directly in front of him, and looked him up and down like she was inspecting her next meal, her smile growing wider by the second.

                Her actions gave him goosebumps. _She_ gave him goosebumps. Sherlock _hated_ having goosebumps.

                He cleared his throat, and took a small step back. “You seem to have been doing well, Ms. Adler,” he started, trying to mask his discomfort. “Going by the looks of your rather expensive attire, I gather _business_ has been booming for you.”  _He wondered if she caught the sarcasm._

                The Woman chuckled. “Irene, please. I think we’re familiar enough to address each other by our first names” she said, elegantly tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

                Sherlock nodded politely. He didn’t particularly like the idea, but it didn’t really matter what she called him, as long as she would prove her worth.

                “To answer your question,” Irene continued, “yes, I have been doing well. I have gained quite the faithful clientele in only a few short months. I swear, people in LA like the most _outrageous_ things.” She smiled brazenly, “It’s delightfully entertaining, I’m never bored. And now that you’re here,” she once again closed the distance between them, and poked him in the chest with her index finger, tracing with it the lapels of his jacket, “I expect it to be even more so.”

                Sherlock again backed away from the Woman’s proximity, uncomfortable with her persistent invasion of his personal space.  He didn’t know what made her come to the conclusion that he would provide her any kind of entertainment, and frankly, he didn’t think he wanted to. Just imagining what was going on in that perverse mind of hers made the hairs on his neck stand on end.

                “I think it would be advisable for us to be on our way” he noted, “while this is a foreign country, and I am fairly certain that my notoriety has not yet reached this continent, I still would prefer not to be out in the open like this for extended periods of time.”

                “Of course,” Irene replied with a curt nod of the head. “Anita is waiting for us in the car.” She turned and began walking towards the exit, beckoning him to follow her.

                Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Anita?”

                “My assistant” she answered with a grin. “Well, I say assistant…” she snickered. “But don’t worry” she quickly added, “I assure you she is 100% trustworthy. I take the utmost care when picking my employees. Obviously I’m the last person that can afford to have disloyal help.”

_She had him there._

                The Woman led them out of the airport and into the parking lot, stopping next to a black Mercedes ( _recently bought – less than 4 months ago – rarely used, probably only for special occasions_ ). They were welcomed by an attractive blonde woman, with her hair cut in a perfect bob style, in her early thirties, a bit taller and broader than Irene, wearing a black two-piece skirt suit ( _professional, close attention to detail, takes her job seriously, clearly more than just an assistant_ ).

                Irene reached out for the woman and put an arm around her waist. “Sherlock Holmes, this is Anita Williams, my assistant. Anita, meet Sherlock Holmes, the world’s first, and _last_ , consulting detective.” She had emphasized ‘last’, clearly trying to imply that he no longer held the coveted title, since technically he was no longer among the living.

                He glared daggers at the Woman; he did not enjoy being belittled by people of inferior quality to him. _Only he could do the belittling._ However, he said nothing and took Anita’s hand, shaking it politely ( _he had pride in being called a perfect gentleman, even though his gentleness was completely wasted on women such as these_ ), taking the opportunity to get a better look at the assistant. “How do you do” he mumbled.  

                His observations told him that Anita was harmless enough, though she was clearly partial to being tied up, given the state of her wrists ( _prefers rope – natural fibers, the painful kind – rather than handcuffs, which probably said something about her character_ ).   

                Not really in the mood for pleasantries, he released the woman’s hand and proceeded to put his luggage into the trunk of the car. He then quickly climbed into the backseat, followed closely by Irene ( _why did she have to sit next to him?_ ), Anita taking the driver’s seat.

                The Woman was once again very close to his person, even though the car was wide enough to seat the both of them at a respectable distance from each other; she had scooted towards him so that their thighs were now touching.

                Sherlock felt his back become sweaty. _Lord, he needed a shower._ Yes, a cold shower to help bypass the damned Los Angeles heat that was causing him to perspire more than he would care to acknowledge. He tried to bury himself in the car door, but the Woman only drew nearer.

                She gazed at him directly, with a look he couldn’t seem to understand (but which he foundunnerving as all hell), and then gently placed her hand on top of his.

                He twitched at the sudden contact.

                “Sherlock” she said, in a voice that was close to a whisper, “I’m sorry.”

                He blinked at her, confused. “Sorry for what?”

                To his surprise, she genuinely looked sad. “For everything” she said.

                They stared at each other for a while, words eluding both of them, however Sherlock somehow understood what she was trying to convey. She was sorry for what had happened between them in the past, her betrayal, him risking his life to save hers in Pakistan, and for what he had recently been through.

                Now that he thought about it, their situations were so strikingly similar that it was almost difficult to believe. Both were officially dead, both were in hiding, and both had no one to really rely on other than themselves. “As am I” he replied.

                She nodded with a smile and gave his hand a squeeze, making him flinch again. _Why did he keep doing that?!_

                Before Irene could say anything else the car came to a stop. “We’re home!” rang the voice of Anita from the front seat.

                Without so much as another glance at the Woman, Sherlock quickly opened the door and slid out of the car. He found himself standing in front of a lavish two story duplex which, going by the architecture, was an old house, but had been restored not too long ago. You would never have guessed that this was a world-famous dominatrix’s sex den, which was a good thing. _The more inconspicuous, the better._

                While he was inspecting the house and the neighborhood, Anita had already retrieved his suitcase and placed it by his side, before returning in the car and driving away towards the back of the house; _the garage was probably that way._

                Sherlock was startled when he felt an arm locking with his, holding it tightly, pulling him down the stone pathway towards the entrance of the mansion. He looked down at Irene who had a large grin plastered on her face. She had taken the liberty of taking his suitcase and dragging it beside her with her free hand.

                He was once again very uncomfortable with the Woman’s defiant invasion of his personal space, but he deemed the act of locking arms not such a scandalous gesture as to make him push her away. _Gentleman, remember?_

                They both climbed the few steps that led to the veranda, and she finally let go of his arm when they reached the front door. She opened it and gracefully stepped in, motioning for Sherlock to follow suit.

                As its exterior, the inside of the mansion had been recently renovated. It was remarkably similar with her house back in Belgravia, though slightly on the more modern side. He walked in, taking in every small detail of the house ( _obsessively cleaned – most probably by Anita – but it was obvious the house received many guests, or rather clients, on a daily basis, given the lackluster sheen of the wooden floors_ ).

                “What do you think?” Irene interrupted his train of thought, “I do hope you will find it most accommodating, though I’m sure it won’t be as… homey… as your flat in Baker Street.” 

                He stopped dead in his tracks. The mention of his former home made Sherlock’s heart ache, but he tried to bury the feelings of sadness and longing, not wanting the Woman to realize that she had been correct in her thinking that he was indeed ‘homesick’.

                Unfortunately, Irene had caught him in his brief moment of weakness. _Damn!_  She tilted her head to the side, sizing him up. _Shit!_ “Sherlock,” she said, slowly striding towards him, looking him in dead in the eye, a brazen smile on her face “let’s have dinner.” _Fuck!_

                He froze, looked at her warily and gulped. _There she goes again._ His gaze then traveled to a grandfather clock that was located at the end of the room. “It’s only 3 o’clock in the afternoon” he retorted.

                Her smile widened and she closed the distance between them slightly, “I’m hungry _now,_ Sherlock. Trust me, having dinner with me will help you forget all about that troublesome pain you’re feeling right” she poked him in the chest where his heart was, “there!” She then grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and began slowly pulling him down towards her.

                Sherlock was unable to speak, unable to move, unable to think; he simply looked at the Woman as her face grew closer to his own. He admired her stunning features, breathed in her scent, became strikingly aware of the heat emanating from her body, and he found himself holding his breath, tilting his head to the side. Their lips had been just about to touch, when Sherlock’s mind was suddenly invaded by the image of a pair of shining dark brown eyes, staring at him. They had appeared out of nowhere, and without warning. As if burned, he shoved the Woman away from him, and backed himself into the wall, panting and sweating like mad. _What the hell was that?!_ He suppressed a shiver and shook his head, trying to steady himself.

                Irene looked at him with confusion, surprise, and maybe even a bit of worry. “Are you alright?” she asked. “You’ve suddenly gone pale. Did you see a ghost or something?”

                Sherlock buried his face in his palms, trying to drive away the image of the eyes and the word that had begun violently pervading his mind. ‘ _Molly!’_

_Why?_

_Why did he think of Molly Hooper?_

_The kiss?_

_Yes… Because of the kiss… Of course._

                Irene had been just about to initiate the same act, it was reasonable that Molly, who had given him his very first kiss less than 24 hours ago, would pop up in his mind. _It was normal. Yes, of course it was. It was only logical._

                He took in a deep breath, steadying his heart rate ( _when the hell had it become elevated?_ ), and turned to the Woman. “I… I apologize for my reaction,” he bowed his head apologetically, slightly ashamed of using force against a woman, even if he knew this particular woman probably enjoyed it more than she should have. “I may have… overreacted. Did I hurt you?”

                “Oh please,” she replied, waving her hand dismissively, “make nothing of it. I understand. I can imagine the idea of receiving one’s first kiss can be… “ she sneered, “slightly unnerving. But don’t worry” she continued in a deep seductive voice, “I’ll be gentle.” She grinned and once again placed her hands on his jacket.

                He immediately grabbed her by the wrists and removed them from his chest, slowly pushing her away from him, frowning. “I believe there are a few things we need to make clear, Ms. Adler” he spoke gravely.

                “Irene” she corrected him, amused.

                He sighed. “ _Irene_ ” he corrected himself unwillingly. “Firstly, I would like to establish a few boundaries between us.” He released her arms and distanced himself from her. “You are not allowed to make any attempts at kissing me, embracing me, inviting me to ‘ _dinner’_ , or any physical interaction for that matter. And while I am flattered by your, dare I say, foolish schoolgirl infatuation, I simply must insist you cease with your bothersome attempts at intimacy. It’s distracting and annoying.”

                She raised an eyebrow and clicked her tongue, glaring daggers at him. _Huh, his statement seemed to have irritated her for some reason._

                “And secondly,” he cleared his throat, “that… would not have been my first kiss.” He quickly looked away, suddenly very interested in the painting sitting above the imitation fireplace that decorated the room ( _1950s, abstract expressionism, oil on canvas, ugly as sin_ ).  “Now, I should like to be shown to my room, I have quite a bit of work that I need to – “

                She snorted.

                He turned his head back to her, eyebrows raised. _Well, that was remarkably ladylike! (Sarcasm)_

                “Excuse me?!” she asked incredulously. “You’ve kissed someone before?!”

_What the hell was she so surprised about?_

                “Yes,” he frowned, annoyed by her disbelief that he would have partaken in the act of kissing, as uncharacteristically of him as it was. He straightened his back, “I have, actually.”

                Her smile faded for a moment, but returned just as quickly as it had disappeared. “Oh?” the Woman asked mockingly.

_He did not like to be mocked._

                “And who, if I may ask, took it from you?” she asked.

                Sherlock blinked. “Who took what from me?”

                She rolled her eyes and shook her head in disbelief. “Your first kiss!” she clarified. “Who took it?”

                “Oh…” He paused and looked away. There was no way in hell he was going to talk about Molly Hooper with Irene Adler, it felt… wrong somehow. “A… friend” he said lamely. _Molly was his friend, wasn’t she?  Yes, of course she was. She had more than earned the coveted spot of being friends with Sherlock Holmes, the lucky girl._

                Irene raised an eyebrow. “Well, then I guess Dr. Watson is a lucky man. I knew he had been lying when he said he wasn’t –“

                “It wasn’t John!” Sherlock blurted. _What was wrong with people? Always claiming that he and John had any kind of romantic involvement... like their relationship could ever be so cheap. Plus, he was fairly certain that he was not gay… and he should think that John had made it clear enough that he wasn’t either._ “Now, I really don’t want to discuss this any further, if you could please direct me to my room, I truly need to get some work do– “

                “What else has this friend taken from you, besides your first kiss?” the Woman continued, not bothering to even listen to him.

_Did she suffer from a hearing impairment he didn’t know about? No, he would have noticed it immediately. He really should let her know that she was a rude and obnoxious shrew one of these days._

                “Nothing” he said through gritted teeth. He inhaled deeply, trying to keep his increasing anger in check. “She – “ he stopped, suddenly several images of Molly Hooper flashing through his mind: Molly in her white lab coat, bringing him coffee, her inconspicuously handing him a bag of human thumbs, her helping him with his experiments at the lab, her giving him a kiss in a deserted park. He surprised himself by smiling. “She doesn’t take… she only gives” he said in a voice so quiet he was sure the Woman had not heard him, even though she was only a few feet away.

                “She?!” this time, Irene seemed genuinely taken aback. “A woman?!”

                Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes Irene, I do believe ‘she’ is the third person singular, feminine, nominative case pronoun used to describe a person of the female sex. I know it’s been a while since you’ve been in the 4th class. No offense, but I’m sure it’s been more than 20 years. I would have hoped you would have retained even the slightest memory of basic English grammar, or has the constant hitting and smacking impaired your cognitive functions?” he sneered.

                She narrowed her eyes and clenched her jaw, ready to kill.

_This time it was easy to tell she was annoyed._

                She was about to retort, when Anita sauntered into the room. The blonde froze when she saw the look on Irene’s face, then her eyes wandered over to Sherlock. “Everything okay?” she asked nervously.

                “Fine!” the Woman breathed out, replacing the ire on her face with a slightly forced smile. “Anita, please show Mr. Holmes to his room, I’m sure the trip must have been exhausting.” _Oh, they were back to calling each other by their surnames? Good_! She then turned to him. “If you need anything, please inform Anita, she will take care of any request you might have throughout your stay.”

                “Yes, thank you. There are a few things that I will be needing while I am here; I shall make you a list” he answered. “I do, however, require a laptop as soon as possible. If either of you would be so kind as to lend me yours, I would greatly appreciate it.” Sherlock was starting to get very impatient; there was too much talking and not enough working and he desperately wanted to get some much needed time to think. Time was, after all, of the essence.

                “No need,” Ms. Adler replied. “I’ve already taken the liberty of purchasing a laptop strictly for your personal use, it’s in your room. Please take no offense, but I have no intention of letting you near my computer or my phone, I’m sure you understand.” She smiled knowingly at him.

                “Quite” Sherlock nodded. He looked once more at the Woman, before requesting one last time to be taken to his room. Luckily, his request was obliged and Anita led him towards his new quarters, on the first floor.

                “This is where you’ll be staying” she informed him as they arrived in front of a large wooden door. “Irene’s room is just down the hall on the right, the library is on the left, and mine’s downstairs,” She explained making hand gestures similar to those of a flight attendant. “I’ll be there if you ever…” she smirked and winked at him, blatantly flirting “need anything…” _Yeah, probably not_. “Your room has an adjacent bathroom, you’ll find it equipped with everything you need.” She held out a small metal key and placed it in his open hand. “And this is your key. Anything else?”

                A thought crossed Sherlock’s mind. “Are there any other keys to my room besides this one?” he inquired.

                Anita grinned. “I’ve got one, and so does Irene. Is there a problem with that?”

                He narrowed his eyes at her. “If I am to be assured that I will receive no… unwanted visits, then no, there is no problem.”

                The assistant said nothing; instead she just stood there, grinning like an idiot. _It was decided, he didn’t like Anita Williams._

                “Let me make one thing clear, _Anita_ ” he looked down at her ( _he was a head taller than the blonde, so hopefully he appeared to be more imposing than he actually was_ ), “if there is one thing I absolutely hate, it is having my work interrupted. And I assure you, I can become _very_ unpleasantif I am not allowed to do my job in peace.”

                “Okay!” she deadpanned, completely unfazed. _Damn!_

                She turned to leave, but stopped mid-motion and turned back to face him. “One more thing” she added, gravely “don’t go anywhere near the basement. Ever!”

                “What’s in the basement?” he asked, confused.

                “Irene’s office” she winked at him again before turning on her heel and walking away, leaving him standing alone in front of his room.

                “Office indeed!” he mumbled to himself, opening the door and letting himself in.

                He stopped dead in his tracks and felt his stomach churn. “What. The. Hell?!” he made each word its own sentence. He was flabbergasted.

                It was Baker Street! Sherlock stood facing an exact replica of his bedroom in 221B Baker Street!

                “What the hell?!” he swore again.

                Everything, from the bed, to the wallpaper, to the Periodic Table, to the picture of Edgar Allan-Poe… it was all identical; she had even made a copy of his Judo certificate! _What the HELL?!_

                He felt sick. Memories of his home and of the people he had left behind had begun flooding his already weary mind. 

                “Damn. You. Irene. Adler!” he said through gritted teeth. _Why would she have done this?  Did she think he would appreciate it? She was a moron if she did._

                The thought of waking up every day in his room, and not finding John or Mrs. Hudson on the other side of the door tore him apart. He couldn’t take it; the sadness and depression would end up truly killing him in the end.  

                He wanted to go scream at the Woman, make her fix it, and he had just about run out the door when his eyes settled on a laptop sitting on “his” desk at the end of the room, making him halt.

_He’d yell at her later, this was more important._

                He made his way instinctively towards the desk, ( _he could have done it with his eyes closed, the path was so identical_ ), picked up the laptop, and walked to the bed, lying down with his back leaning on the head board ( _even he mattress was remarkably similar to the one back home, goddamn it_ ).

                He put the device on his lap, raised the lid, turned it on, and found that an internet connection had thankfully already been established; he was thankful he didn’t have to go ask Anita or the Woman for the password, he doubted he could look at either of their faces at the moment without blowing a fuse.  

                He hastily opened up the web browser, entered a URL in the address bar and tapped the ‘Enter’ key. A login form appeared on the screen; Sherlock entered the username and password ( _a bunch of senseless gibberish obviously, he wasn’t stupid_ ), he hit ‘Enter’ again and waited for the page to load. After less than a second, on the screen appeared nothing but 5 simple links, each tagged a different name: “john”, “mrs. h”, “greg”, “molly”, and “bart’s”.

                Sherlock inhaled deeply. He was nervous. The desire to click the first link was almost overwhelming, but so was the fear of what he might see.

                He wondered if planting secret cameras in his friends’ flats and at Bart’s morgue was the right thing to do.

                They’d probably kill him if they knew; at best they would never speak to him again. He was aware that people disliked having their privacy invaded, but he told himself that he had made the right decision.

                He knew that the footage was secure, that he was sure of, since Mycroft himself had provided the top secret server onto which the recordings were uploaded ( _good old Mycroft and his hobby of peeking into other people’s lives… Particularly his younger brother’s… Prick!_ ). His older brother had also overseen the cameras’ installation; he had bragged that they were top of the line spy cams, generously given ( _given his arse_ ) by some of his good friends ( _friends, HA!_ ) at MI5. He reluctantly had to hand it to his older sibling however; if there was one thing Mycroft knew well, it was spying on people. There were times when even Sherlock himself struggled with some of the more ingenious means of surveillance his big brother had come up with. _Bastard!_

                He kept telling himself that this was all for his friends’ protection, for their safety; they might hate him for it later on, but it had to be done, he had to keep an eye on them, had to make sure they were out of danger while he was not personally there to ensure it.

                But he also knew that it was just as much for his own sake as it was for theirs. He needed to see them, he needed to know what they were doing, that they were all right; it would make his situation much easier to bear, it would help him survive.     

                He stared at the screen for several minutes, the mouse pointer hovering over John’s name.

                He decided to skip him for now.

                He looked at “his” alarm clock. It was 3pm there, which meant that it would be 11pm in London; it was also a Thursday… _Lestrade should be home._ He clicked the link titled ‘greg’ and immediately a different page appeared on the screen. At the center of it was a video player where he could watch real-time streaming of the person of interest, and several thumbnails below it ( _previously captured footage, the camera used motion sensors apparently… Nice!_ ), and a few different links on the side: ‘living’, ‘bedroom 1’, ‘bedroom 2’, ‘kitchen’, ‘bathroom’. _They installed one even in the loo?!... Nice!_

                He clicked the ‘Play’ icon on the player and as the video started playing he switched to full-view to get a better image. The camera was placed expertly well ( _well done, Mycroft’s mindless drones!_ ), he had perfect vision of Lestrade’s entire living area, but to Sherlock’s disappointment, the room was empty and he wondered if Greg had already gone to bed. Just as he was going to click the ‘bedroom 1’ link, he noticed a figure appearing on the left side of the screen.

                And there was Greg Lestrade himself, in all his HD glory ( _really, these cameras had some pretty damn advanced tech behind them_ ), dressed in a plain white T-shirt and a pair of blue boxer shorts, with a beer in his hand left hand, and a remote control in his right. _Apparently, he was the type who wore nothing but his underwear at home… charming._

                Sherlock watched the Detective-Inspector shuffle around his flat, and allowed himself to crack a smile. He really did miss the bloke, as annoying, condescending and simple-minded as he tended to be most of the time. He was a good friend, and a reliable ally.

                The man on the screen sat himself on a very ugly gray sofa ( _probably picked out by his philistine ignoramus of a wife_ ) and turned on the telly. He turned the volume down, not really interested in what mindless drivel Greg was watching.

                Sherlock took advantage of his subject’s momentary immobility and zoomed in on him. He noticed that Lestrade had lost around 8 pounds since this whole mess had begun, and his face showed signs of stress and exhaustion. Despite his strong exterior, the man had seemingly taken the events of the previous weeks quite badly. He probably blamed himself, to some extent, for Sherlock’s death and downfall. _What a fool… if the Detective-Inspector was to be blamed for anything, it was for his trust and friendship with him and becoming a target for Moriarty and his assassins._

                The detective watched the man for several more minutes, until the policeman started to grossly scratch his crotch area, causing Sherlock groan in disgust and immediately pause the video. He blinked a few times, shaking his head. _Delete! Delete! Delete!_ He tried desperately to permanently erase the sight of Lestrade scraping at his testicles from his mind forever. _That… was fucking horrifying!_

                He shook his head one more time, and hit ‘Backspace’ on the keyboard, returning to the site’s homepage. _That was enough Greg for one day!_

                His eyes fell once again on the ‘john’ link. He wanted to click it, badly, but he was still not ready yet. Instead, he chose to see what dear old Mrs. Hudson was up to.

                He clicked the link labeled “mrs. h” and was sent to a page identical to the one from before. He hit play on the video and the image of 221A’s living room appeared on the monitor. A deep sigh escaped his lips, and he felt his eyes water slightly. He remembered the cozy and homely atmosphere of Mrs. Hudson’s flat; it was a place where he was always welcome, a place that even in the coldest of days, was always warm and comforting. He felt cold, and longed for that wonderful and familial warmth he knew and loved. He missed it so much it hurt.

                Their landlady was nowhere to be seen, so he went ahead and clicked the ‘bedroom’ link on the side of the page. And as expected, there she was, dressed in her nightwear, sitting on the edge of her bed going through some papers Sherlock couldn’t read from that distance. He zoomed in to get a better look, and felt his heart sink. To his surprise and desolation, she was looking at newspaper clippings with himself as the subject of the stories.

                He saw her moving her lips, so he turned the volume up and heard her sniffle. _Fuck, she was crying._

 _“Oh Sherlock!”_ he heard her say, _“My poor, poor, darling boy! Why did you do this? How could you do this?”_ She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and brought one of the clippings containing a large photograph of him to her lips. “ _I miss you so much!_ ” she sobbed.

                He paused the video and closed his stinging eyes. His jaw was clenched and he clutched his fists so tight his knuckles had become white; he tried to steady his breathing and keep his stomach in check. He felt miserable.

                What he wouldn’t have given to spare that wonderful woman her suffering; he would kill if it gave her even the smallest of consolations ( _hell, he almost did it once… he would easily do it again, if it was for her_ ).

                He had never told her this, or anyone for that matter, but Mrs. Hudson reminded him of his deceased mother.

                She had died when he was still a first year at University. He remembered the pain he had felt at that time had been so horrifying he had thought he would break into a million pieces, the feeling had been otherworldly. Sherlock had loved his mother deeply, more than anything in the entire world. She was the only source of light in the otherwise dark and clouded world around him, the only one who understood and accepted him, as imperfect as he was, who loved him unconditionally no matter how many times he had saddened, angered or disappointed her. Her death had made him lose all hope in life, in love and in God; it was at that moment that he had decided to renounce any kind of sentiment forever, and at that point in his life, the only plausible substitution had been cigarettes, alcohol and drugs, particularly cocaine. It had taken him many years, difficult years, to get over his addictions, and while he had been able to heal his ailing body, his heart had never truly recovered, and he doubted it ever would completely.

                But it was his meeting the warm, kindhearted, motherly Mrs. Hudson that had once again sparked a tiny sliver of hope within him, making him believe that somehow, someday, he could once again find it in his heart to care for someone other than himself. He could say that it had been thanks to her that he had found the courage to actually go out and try to meet new people, to open up to outsiders, to make friends, to live again.   

                “Soon, Mrs. Hudson,” he whispered to the lady on the monitor. “It will all be over soon.” And at that moment, Sherlock swore to himself that after this whole mess had been cleared up, he would personally make sure she never cried again.

                He returned to the homepage, his mind settled. He glared at the link labeled ‘john’ and clicked it, applying a bit too much pressure on the mouse button. He concluded that after witnessing his landlady in the state she had been in, his heart was at its strongest at the moment so he was prepared for the waves of torment he knew he would be subjected to if he were to see John in the same situation.

                He inhaled deeply, braced himself for the worst, and clicked Play. The screen immediately lit up and the infrared footage of the cheap bedsit John had rented after his best friend’s “death” appeared. He had heard him tell Mrs. Hudson that day at the cemetery that he was unable to continue living at Baker Street, not with all the memories of their happier days around him, so he took his belongings and moved into the dingy studio he was now passed out in.  

                The doctor was fast asleep on his bed, with one arm dangling over the edge, his hand clinging to an almost empty bottle of what appeared to be very bad quality whiskey. He couldn’t see his face too well, and in all honesty, he was relieved. He could clearly tell that his friend was in pretty bad shape ( _clothes, hair, the messy flat… all indicated that he had forgone taking of care of his health or personal hygiene for at least a week_ ), and he was thankful that he had missed seeing him in his more or less wakened state. Frankly, he didn’t even want to imagine it.

                He spent the entirety of 10 minutes watching his best friend sleep, remembering him and the good memories they had made in the little time they had known each other. He hoped with all his might that the good doctor would soon heal and once again become the strong, kind, brave man he had come to care for like a brother ( _not a ‘Mycroft’ kind of brother, but a brother-brother_ ). And he knew he would, sooner or later.

                He finally paused the video, and returned to the site’s homepage once more. There was only one more person left to check on.

_Molly._

                He frowned.

                He was nervous.

 _Why was he nervous?_ _It was only Molly Hooper. What could possibly make him nervous about looking in on her? Ridiculous!_

                He looked at the clock; it was now 4pm, so midnight in London. It was Molly’s turn to take the night shift at Bart’s, so she was probably at the morgue. Sherlock was glad he had insisted that Mycroft install cameras there and in the labs of St Bart’s Hospital, he hadn’t given a reason why ( _like he would give Mycroft any kind of explanations, ever_ ), but he felt it was a necessary precaution. Molly spent almost as much time at her work as at home, it was only logical he should check in on her there as well. _It was completely reasonable._

                He clicked the ‘bart’s’ link that sent him to the desired destination page, immediately hitting the play button on the video, and frowned at what he saw, or better yet, at what he didn’t see, which was Molly Hooper. Instead, Sherlock saw one of her colleagues ( _Quentin Stewart was his name… probably… he was 70% sure that was his name_ ) performing a post-mortem on what appeared to be an old man in his early 60’s. Curiosity hit him and he zoomed in on the corpse to get a better look.

_Yep, car crash, drunk driver, broken ribs, punctured lung, died before paramedics arrived…too easy._

                Molly would surely have figured it out just by the preliminary check-ups; it would probably take Stewart, who was nothing more than an incompetent moron, like 90% of the morgue’s staff, a complete autopsy and 4 times the amount of time that it would have taken her to conclude the cause of death. _Why wasn’t she at work? Why wasn’t she the one slicing up this man’s cadaver?_

                He tried checking the labs hoping to find her there, but to no avail. She had not come to work. It was slightly upsetting, especially since he had specifically told her not to take any more holidays. _Really, can’t she follow even such simple instructions?_

                Annoyed, he returned to the homepage and clicked the link that led him to the page assigned to Molly’s flat, quickly clicking Play as soon as the page had loaded.

                He froze.

                As expected, Molly Hooper was at home. What was unexpected however was her lying limply on her sofa, dressed in the same clothing he had last saw her in, her eyes open, but almost completely glazed over. For a moment he panicked and zoomed in on her body, hoping with all his might that she was all right. He felt relief wash over him when he saw her chest slowly rising, in a steady rhythm. G _ood, she was okay! Good!_

                He took a closer look at her face; her eyes were red, her face hollow and her hair disheveled. _Had she been laying there ever since she had gotten home? Surely not…_ It had been almost 24 hours since he had left London for Los Angeles. _Maybe she was not so okay…_

                He sat there watching her for the better part of 15 minutes, during which she had barely reacted, save for a few sighs and sniffles. He was considering checking the pre-recorded footage, to see just how long she had been in that state, whenSherlock noticed movement coming from what he remembered to be the kitchen area, where a tiny silhouette had suddenly appeared and slowly began making its way towards Molly, mewling lightly. _Oh,_ i _t was only her cat. Toby was its name, if he remembered correctly._ He looked at the feline as it stalked towards its master, head down and tail high. _He hated Toby. In fact, Sherlock hated cats in general. Why couldn’t she have a dog? Dogs were better, more loyal. More physically appealing too. Molly was a bit like a dog, actually._

                Toby halted at the edge of the sofa, lifted its head and nibbled on Molly’s hand, which was dangling to the side. Finally, the woman stirred. She turned her head and looked down at the small animal.

                “Hey you,” she said in a voice so quiet Sherlock had to turn the volume up to hear her, “I forgot to feed you, didn’t I?”

                The cat responded with an unsatisfied meow, making the woman crack a smile and sigh. “I’m sorry sweetheart, forgive me?” she scratched Toby behind the ears before attempting to get up, only to stop mid-motion, quickly placing her hand to her forehead.

                “Oh hell!” she groaned and lied back down, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes. “Oh God, Toby” she grumbled, “I wish you weren’t a cat, that way you could shoot me and put me out of my misery.”

                She held her hands over her eyes like that for a few moments, until she finally found the courage to get up again, albeit much slower this time. She combed her fingers through her hair and rubbed her face with both hands, trying to pull herself together. Sighing, she looked down at her cat, which had begun impatiently clawing at her jeans. “I’ll get your food in a minute, love, that is, if you actually let me get to the kitchen first.”

                Molly tried to escape Toby’s grip, failing miserably a few times, having to grip the edge of the sofa to keep her balance, until she managed to gently kick him aside, and finally disappeared into the kitchen. She returned after several minutes with a bowl of cat food in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. She put the bowl down on the floor and took a large gulp of milk. The animal gleefully ran towards its much desired meal, barely halting before digging its face into the food.

                Molly watched her pet with amusement for a while, before her features once again turned sad. “How about some Ella, Toby?” she suggested in a slightly shaky voice. “Ella always helps us feel better, doesn’t she?” Toby didn’t bother to answer, too engrossed with the bowl of… whatever it was he was eating.

                Sherlock frowned at the computer screen. _Ella? Who the hell was Ella?_ He racked his brain hoping to remember Molly ever mentioning a person named Ella before; he didn’t.

                He watched Molly walk to the other end of the room, towards her second hand entertainment system. She plugged in her iPod, and began browsing through what was probably her playlist for a while until she finally stopped and took a deep shaky breath. She seemed to be fighting some kind of interior battle, until apparently giving in with a sigh. “I’m such a fucking masochist” she said, cracking a grin and shaking her head.

                Suddenly the air was filled with a delicate, melancholic tune that warmed Sherlock’s heart down to its core, the soft sounds of the string instruments making him want to pick up his own violin and play till his fingers bled.

                He watched Molly intently, as she crossed the room and sat cross-legged on the floor, next to Toby, beginning to rock her slender body to the slow rhythm of the music.

                Then something clicked inside his brain. _Ella!_ He took a quick stroll through his ‘Mind Palace’ and almost immediately found the entry he was looking for.

                **_Ella Fitzgerald_** _, April 25 th 1917 – June 15th 1996, dubbed ‘First Lady of Song’ and ‘Queen of jazz’,  American jazz and song vocalist, noted for her purity of tone, impeccable diction, and her scat singing, career spanned for more than 59 years, won 13 Grammys, awarded National Medal of Arts and the Presidential Medal of Freedom. _

                He hadn’t known Molly liked jazz. In all honesty, itwas a bit surprising. _He approved though, it fit her oddly well, the spontaneity and vitality of the genre was something he appreciated–_

                Suddenly, his train of thought was interrupted, as Ella’s warm and radiant voice erupted from his laptop’s speakers.

_‘Ev’ry time we say goodbye, I die a little,’_

                He took a deep, long breath, and felt his heart constrict inside his chest.

_‘Ev’ry time we say goodbye, I wonder why a little,’_

                His eyes were fixed on Molly, who was lip-synching to the lyrics, her hand gently caressing Toby’s gray fur. He zoomed in on her face as much as the technology permitted him, and saw that her eyes were shining and her lower lip was quivering as she mumbled the words to the song.

_‘Why the Gods above me, who must be in the know,_

_Think so little of me they allow you to go.’_

                Her body shook and a few tears escaped her eyes, and to his surprise, Sherlock felt his own begin to sting. Yet, he couldn’t avert his gaze from her face. _She looked so…_  

_‘When you’re near, there’s such an air of spring about it,_

_I can hear a lark somewhere, begin to sing about it,’_

                She smiled slightly as she sang the words, closing her eyes, while a few more tears trickled down her cheeks. And once again Sherlock, surprising himself, smiled too, fascinated by the woman on the screen _._

_‘There’s no love song finer, but how strange the change, from major to minor,_

_Ev’ry time we say goodbye.’_

                She wiped a few more tears from her face and picked up Toby, who had finished his meal and had begun playfully scratching at her knee, cradling him in her arms and began slowly dancing to the melody.

                Sherlock followed her movements like he was hypnotized. He looked at how her body swayed to the music, her hair flowing freely over her tiny frame, her slender arms cuddling the small feline, the sad features on her face, her dark shining brown eyes, her thin lips that had never looked as attractive as they did at that moment. Everything about her was absolutely enthralling. _Why? It was still plain old Molly, nothing special, nothing remotely interesting about her. What was going on?_

                The chorus had once again begun, and this time, she started singing a little louder.

_‘When you’re near, there’s such an air of spring about it,_

_I can hear a lark somewhere, begin to sing about it,’_

                The last syllables, however, had become muffled by silent sniffles.

_‘There’s no love song finer, but how strange the change, from major to minor,’_

                Her body had begun shaking, tears falling from her eyes, down her cheeks and off her chin.

_‘Ev’ry time we say goodbye.’_

                She dropped once again on her sofa, settling in a fetal position, clutching Toby to her chest, sobbing. “Oh God, Toby, it hurts so much!” she cried. “How will I ever get over this?! I can’t forget about him! I can’t!” Her body was now shaking violently, the cat trying to escape from his master’s clutch, but she didn’t let go, instead burying her face in its fur. “I love him so much, Toby. Oh God, I love him so much! I can’t… I can’t… Sherlock…” she sobbed, loosening her grip slightly on the poor creature. The cat quickly took the opportunity and jumped out of her arms and off the sofa, sauntering off to the kitchen disappearing from sight, leaving its master alone in her misery. _A dog wouldn’t have left... yes, dogs were definitely better. Cats were despicable, hateful creatures._

                 “Sherlock… Sherlock…” she kept whimpering his name, over and over as she cried, rocking her body back and forth, for what seemed like an eternity, until her voice was finally nothing more than a whisper, and as she tried to force his name out of her mouth one more time, she finally dozed off, crying herself to sleep.

                Sherlock slowly closed the laptop’s lid.

                He brought a hand to his face. _Wet._

                He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, and took a few steadying breaths.

                He felt nauseous.

                He felt sad.

                He felt guilty.

                He felt angry.

                He felt frightened.

                He felt too much.

                And it was all Molly Hooper’s fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song used is “Ev’ry time we say goodbye”, written by Cole Porter and sung beautifully by Ella Fitzgerald. Please listen to it, preferably during the scene it comes up in. I assure you, it makes for a completely different reading experience… for me at least. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading and Happy Valentine’s Day! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Finally got Ch. 3 done! This was supposed to be a longer chapter, but I’ve divided it into parts and will be posting them separately. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who’s read, fav’d, followed and reviewed. It really means a lot. 
> 
> And again, a huge thanks to Whitejigsaw for beta-reading.

**Chapter 3**

                _Caring_ … What an absolutely abhorrent concept. _Love, attraction, lust_ … the biggest flaws humans had been forced to live with. _Friendship_ … The bane of our existence. Only those that stood above the rest could successfully bury those irrational, ludicrous, and meaningless emotions into the deepest crevices of their own self.

                And Mycroft Holmes was a man who could proudly say he stood above the rest. It had taken him the better part of his 43 years to be able to completely rinse himself of the horrid sentiments he despised so much. _Working for the government had definitely helped him there._

                At an early age he had decided that life should only be dictated by reason and the mind, rather than emotions and the heart. _‘Care for yourself, and screw the rest!’_ was his motto, which he had managed to successfully follow for most of his life, and had religiously stayed away from any and all kinds of emotional entanglements.

                Of course he had undergone the ritual of ‘dating’ in his long-gone youth, mostly out of sheer curiosity and a need for release his pubescent self had struggled with at the time. Once he had experienced everything he needed to experience, he closed that chapter of his life and concerned himself with more valuable and rewarding things: knowledge, work, and most importantly, himself.

                 And oh how he enjoyed his work: espionage, coups, wars… he’d played with them all. Leading the British Government was just sheer and utter fun. Sometimes even intellectually demanding... Sometimes.

                Contrary to what some of his colleagues thought indiscreetly behind his back, it had not been difficult for him to renounce pursuing women ‘romantically’, mostly because he did not find it at all enjoyable, let alone challenging, but also because he considered it a severe waste of precious time and effort. He had no plans to marry, and the release he required every now and then was easily accomplished with a few telephone calls and some very eager to please, professional ladies.

                But as vexatious as it was to admit, even he was not perfect. Even he had a speck of Yin in his Yang… _Family_. The power of _‘_ blood ties _’_ was a remarkably frightening thing, like a birth defect – you were unwillingly born with it and it was not something easily removed.

                Even though he had been ‘lucky’ enough to have had a most displeasing family – a devil of a father, estranged grandparents on both sides, regular morons for distant relatives, and a spoiled rotten sociopathic younger brother – for whom he had felt next to no attachment whatsoever, there was still one person in this world that had managed to spark ‘emotion’ in Mycroft Holmes’ cold and frigid heart: _Mummy_.

                Lord had he loved Mummy. She had been the most perfect being on this planet: kind, funny, beautiful, intelligent, understanding, and most of all loving. She had adored both her sons with all her soul, forgiven them for all of their misgivings, and never put one above the other.

                He remembered how much their arguing would upset her, always trying to reconcile the two brothers, making them see the error of their ways every time they fought. Mycroft had of course done all he could to alleviate the animosity between them, however his wonderfully empathetic ( _sarcasm_ ) younger brother would always dismiss his offers of amnesty and continue being an insufferable, obnoxious, hateful little brat! _God, he had despised the fucking git._

                The only time he had felt any kind of closeness to Sherlock was when Mummy passed away. The last thing she had said to him was _‘Take care of your brother, darling. He’s not as strong as you.’_ At first he had felt displeased by his mother’s consideration of only Sherlock’s well-being, but soon after he had realized that she had indeed been correct in her assumptions. He had thought that he had taken Mummy’s death badly, but Mycroft was thoroughly shocked by his brother’s complete and utter breakdown. Seeing him like that, drowning his sorrows in cocaine and morphine, practically begging for his death… it had actually frightened him ( _surprising as it was)._ It was at that point he realized that, despite all of their differences and arguments, he did _care_ about his obnoxious baby brother, and the prospect of losing the only blood relative he had any affection towards was extremely upsetting, so he had to do put a stop to it. He had practically thrown Sherlock into rehab, forced him to get clean and made him finish his studies, thus gaining his younger brother’s unconditional hate for the rest of their lives. _What are families for?_

                And that was how he had basically become Sherlock Holmes’ lifelong babysitter. _Oh God, what was he doing with his life?_

                And now, after many trials, tribulations, and mistakes, his baby brother was disgraced in front of the entire country, a criminal, officially deceased and unofficially hiding 5000 miles away, in sunny California.

                And Mycroft? Mycroft was stuck doing damage control. Not like he had any say in the matter, he was actually man enough to admit when he had made a miscalculation, and he knew it was his duty to make amends for his rather traitorous slip of the tongue. He really had made a mess of things.

                _Still, why was he paying an impromptu visit to Ms. Molly Hooper’s flat?_

                Well, for one thing, Sherlock had called and practically begged him ( _yes, it was mind-blowing_ ) to go check up on his favorite pathologist at her own home.

                _Why though?_

                He had installed spy cams in each of his friends’ flats on Sherlock’s own request. Why did he need to make any personal visits? And why Molly Hooper? He would have understood if it were John ( _he tolerated John, he was a good man, a good influence on Sherlock_ ), or Mrs. Hudson ( _almost bearable, but she did make good tea_ ), even Lestrade ( _he was useful… sometimes_ ); but Molly Hooper? He saw no reason to concern himself with that dull woman. Granted, she was the only person who was aware of his brother’s whereabouts, but he doubted she would let anything slip, she wasn’t _that_ dim-witted.

                _This was all really very strange._

                Mycroft lost his train of thought when his Mercedes stopped in front of a quaint little apartment building in eastern London.

                He slid out of the car, umbrella in hand and turned to the other passenger that had kept quiet throughout the entire ride. “Wait for me, I shouldn’t be long” he told Anthea, who was furiously typing away on her mobile.

                “Yes sir” the assistant replied robotically, before closing the car door.

                He watched as it drove away around the corner, then went ahead and approached the entrance and pressed the number on the intercom assigned to her flat. It rang a few times until it was answered with a quick “ _You’re early, come on up_ ” and before he could even try to utter a syllable, the door buzzed open and he was let in. _Seemed like she was already expecting company._

               Without giving it too much thought, he entered the building and made his way up to her apartment.

                As he ascended the stairs towards the second floor, he wondered what Sherlock had seen in those video footages that had been so disconcerting that he needed to pester his very busy older brother with requests of petty house calls. No one was given permission to access the recordings, ‘T _o respect the privacy of his_ friends’ he had said. _HA! Like he was doing anything but disrespecting their privacy, the damn hypocrite_.

                He arrived in front of her door and rang the doorbell. _Really, how bad could it have been that it could make even his callous brother so worried that – Oh…_

                The door opened and Mycroft found himself facing a weary, hollow-faced, red-eyed, considerably shocked, mess of a woman ( _Oh dear,_ _perhaps Sherlock actually had a point in worrying)._ “Good afternoon, Ms. Hooper” he said as casually as he could, his eyes darting all over her frame, trying to get as much data as he could.

                All she did was stare at him dumbly, her mouth agape and eyes wide.

                They stood there in awkward silence for a few seconds, until she finally got a hold of herself and managed to stutter “M-Mr. Holmes?!” _Ah, progress at last!_

                He leaned on his umbrella and tried to smile his ‘friendliest’ of smiles.“I apologize for the impromptu visit, Ms. Hooper; I hope I am not disturbing.” He spoke in a very chipper tone, trying to make the woman relax enough to get a decent reaction out of her. _She looked fairly aghast at the moment._   

                “Uhm no, not really” she said weakly shaking her head, looking anxious. “Can I help you with anything?”

                “There is something I wish to discuss with you!” he replied coolly. “May I come in? I assure you it will not take long.”

                She hesitated for only a moment, before nodding and allowing him to enter her flat.

                It took Mycroft exactly 35 seconds to observe and analyze his surroundings – _modern, yet cheap furniture, soft cream colors, everything matched nicely, save for a horrid green sofa set in the middle of the living room (older than the rest of the furniture, at least once reupholstered, an heirloom, kept for sentimental reasons); tea tray set for two in the center of the coffee table, and a bag of take-away aside (expecting company, as previously noticed from her answer at the door); the apartment had not been thoroughly  cleaned, in fact it had not been in a long while (expecting a close friend or a family member, someone who visited frequently enough not to be bothered by a little mess)... boring._

What surprised him however, was the sound of music that was enveloping the entire flat; a beautiful piano solo filled the air, and he heard the unmistakable contralto voice of Nina Simone ( _real name Eunice Kathleen Waymon, February 21 st 1993 – April 21st 2003, singer, songwriter, pianist, arranger, civil rights activist, associated with jazz, blues, gospel and classical music, recorded more than 40 albums throughout her career_) singing what he recognized to be the song ‘In love In Vain’ ( _ah yes, an_ _excellent piece_ ) and he listened intently to the lyrics as Molly motioned for him to take a seat.

_‘It’s only human for anyone to want to be in love_

_But who wants to be in love in vain?’_

                “Tea?” she inquired, already moving to pour him a cup before he could answer.

                “Yes, thank you“ he responded politely, “milk, two sugars.”

_‘At night you hang around the house and weep you heart out_

_And cry your eyes out and rack your brain’_

                His eyes followed her as she went about preparing the tea, analyzing her face and movements, something in his brain beginning to click.

_‘You sit and wonder, how anyone as wonderful as he_

_Could cause you such misery and pain’_

                He took once more notice of her disheveled appearance, and how she did her best to hide the effects the lyrics were having on her. _Oh dear Lord, no!_

_‘I thought that I would be in Heaven, but I’m only up a tree_

_‘Cause it’s just my luck to be in love in vain.’_

                He internally groaned and fought the urge to slap his palm against his forehead. _The stupid, stupid woman!_ He knew she had a slight infatuation with his brother, but he never dreamed it was this bad.  Now he understood why Sherlock had insisted he go check up on her. The foolish woman was in love with his sod of a younger brother. And it made her miserable. And he probably felt guilty about it. _What a fucking arsehole!_ He wanted to punch the bastard, hard. What the hell was he supposed to do anyway? He had no clue how to handle heart-broken women; it was definitely not his area. _Oh God, what if she started to cry?_

                “Excuse me, but why are you here?” she asked suddenly and he realized she had taken a seat in the beige armchair on the right of the sofa. She looked a bit nervous, and probably had an idea of the reason behind his visit.

                He took the cup and saucer that had been placed before him in his hands, leaned back on the sofa and crossed his legs. “I would like to talk to you about my dear baby brother,” he said nonchalantly. _Might as well get this over with, goddamn it._

                She tensed at the mention of his brother, looking away and fiddling with her own cup. _Nervous, uncomfortable of discussing Sherlock in front him, afraid to be found out… well, too late for that._

“I am sure you are aware that I know of my brother’s current status and whereabouts, as you also are aware of my knowledge of your involvement in arranging his ‘death’, yes?” he added, taking a sip of the mediocre tea she had provided.

                She nodded slowly, avoiding eye contact, still preoccupied with the act of twiddling her cup.

                “Then that means there are no secrets between us,” the older Holmes said in a chipper tone. “So…let’s chat!”

                At this she finally lifted her head frowning, surprise and confusion etched into her features. “I don’t understand” she said apprehensively.

                He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “I simply assumed that, given we are among the very few who are aware of Sherlock’s current situation, it would give you a bit of peace of mind in being able to discuss it freely, without fear of betraying his trust or endangering the lives of the other people involved.”

                As if a light bulb had been turned on in her brain, her whole demeanor changed, if ever so slightly, for the better. She smiled. _Success! At least the threat of tears was gone for now._

                 “Okay” she replied shyly. “I guess talking about it with someone would take a bit of the burden off of my shoulders. I’ve been a bit under the weather lately, you see.”

                “Oh I’ve noticed.” He flashed his ‘remember who you’re talking to’ grin before turning more serious. “And let me just add that my selfish immature child of a brother is not worth a single drop your tears.” He really could not possibly understand how a sensible, slightly intelligent woman such as herself could possibly fall for that obnoxious sod. It was a bit upsetting, really.

                He was expecting her to be cross at him for his remark, but instead Molly just smiled sadly. “I know” she said softly. “But, it’s not like knowing does you any good. It’s like… uhm…” she flailed her hand, trying to find the right words. “Oh, uhm, it’s like – like fast foods!” she grinned slightly, clearly amused by her own example, “you know they’re bad for you, you know they’re full of chemicals and preservatives and shit, but you just can’t stay away from them, can you?”

                Suddenly, a myriad of images of pie flashed before Mycroft’s eyes for the briefest moment. “I think I can understand that notion” he mumbled swallowing air, and with all the self-discipline he could muster, pushed his crippling cravings aside to the darker corners of his mind.  _No treat is as sweet as thin feels! No treat is as sweet as thin feels!_                        

                He turned his attention back to Ms. Hooper, glad to see her mood had improved, which meant that their little chat was having the expected therapeutic effects.

                “I must say, Ms. Hooper – “

                “Molly, please” she interrupted, and smiled at him encouragingly.

                _Oh why the hell not._ “Molly” he corrected himself. “I’m a bit surprised you are so easily able to share your thoughts on the matter of your affections towards my brother, as baffling as they are, with me, given that we’ve never truly conversed with one another before” he confessed, slightly bemused.

                She giggled shyly. “Yeah, I know” she replied, fidgeting a bit. “Well, it’s as you said, there are no secrets between us. I mean, it’s not like you didn’t know about my feelings or anything. Well, I guess it’s because I trust you that it feels pretty easy to confide in you.”

                _That, he was not expecting._

                Mycroft Holmes was not someone easily bewildered, let alone left speechless, but this was one occasion where he was both. _She trusted him? Really?_ Was it because he was her crush’s brother? Or a member of the Government? Or because they were the only ones in on Sherlock’s little secret? Whatever her reasons, at that moment Mycroft realized his fears were suddenly and tragically confirmed: _Molly Hooper was an idiot._

                “That and…” she added a bit boldly, “this isn’t the first time we’ve spoken privately, is it?” She raised her eyebrows in mock questioning, and they both smiled at each other knowingly.

                “I daresay that me kidnapping you and trying to bribe you into spying on my baby brother could hardly be called a conversation” he chuckled, remembering how utterly dumb-struck she had been at the time. “I presume I am correct in thinking that Sherlock admonished you for not taking the money, yes?”

                She laughed, and he noticed how different she looked at that moment compared to the woman who had met him at the door when he first arrived; it was like life had been injected into her lifeless body. He unconsciously smiled.

                “He did actually” she added, “said I could have used it to buy a new wardrobe or something.” She shook her head bemused, and Mycroft cringed a little. _Oh dear brother, you clueless dick._

                “He had actually warned me about you when we first met” she continued grinning, “told me I should take you up on the offer.”

                “Yet you didn’t” he retorted.

                “Of course I didn’t” she replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “it would have been unfair to you.”

                Mycroft blinked. It was the second time in the last several minutes that Molly had left him utterly speechless. It was absolutely shocking. He revised his previous verdict, the woman was not an idiot, she was worse. _Molly Hooper was a kind idiot. The poor woman!_

                Somehow this didn’t sit right with him. How could someone trust or care about people they hardly even knew? He simply couldn’t understand it. He even pitied her a bit; her life would be a difficult one, that was for sure, and he was pretty sure she had not had it any easier until now either.

                “Has Sherlock told you about how all this mess started?” he suddenly asked, with a more serious tone.

                She shook her head ‘no’, surprised by the unexpected change of subject. “No, he never gave me any details, just that he needed to ‘die’ or else Moriarty would have John, Mrs. Hudson and Detective Inspector Lestrade killed, and that he needed my help.” The corners of her lips twitched slightly as she spoke, the fact that Sherlock had requested her assistance an obvious source of pride for her. “That was all, though. He didn’t really like talking about it.”

                “I see” he said. He then met her gaze, a challenging look on his face. “What would you say… if I told you I was to blame for all of this?” he asked gravely. 

                He watched as her mouth fell open and she frowned, as if trying to decipher some extremely complicated riddle. “I don’t understand…” she said after a few seconds, apparently giving up on trying to work it out herself.

                He sighed. It wasn’t a topic he enjoyed discussing; on the contrary, it depressed him. He remembered his confrontation with John Watson shortly before Sherlock’s fall, the anger in his demeanor, the disappointment in his eyes, the disgust in his voice. Mycroft had never in his life felt more ashamed and guilty as he had in that moment.

                Now he was looking at this mouse of a woman, who ridiculously had some amount of trust in him, and wondered how strong that faith really was.

                “It was I who gave Jim Moriarty the information he used to destroy my brother’s life and reputation.” he explained grimly. “Everything he asked, I answered. All of Sherlock’s secrets, all his memories, all his flaws… I gave them all to that madman.”

                If Molly’s jaw could go any lower, it would probably hit the floor. She closed it after a while and nodded slowly, trying to make heads or tails of what Mycroft had just confessed. “Why?” she asked simply, still deep in thought.

                “An eye for an eye” he answered simply.

                Seeing the confused expression on her face, he continued: “What you need to understand, Molly, is that Moriarty was not just some simple criminal among many, oh no, he was above that, worlds apart! He ruled them. He was their king. The sovereign of the international crime world! Believe me, I am not exaggerating when I say that Jim Moriarty was the most dangerous man in the world.” Memories of his interrogation of the mastermind resurfaced and he felt himself become physically ill.

                “But the information he had…” he went on, “I doubt you could even begin to imagine the kind of data he had at his disposal… Keys to ending millions of lives, keys to saving them; to destroying countries, to crashing the world’s economy; he had knowledge of everything. As a member of the government, a man like him was our greatest fear.”         

                He took a deep breath, he disliked the next part. “So we captured him, interrogated him for weeks. He spilled nothing. It was not until I started talking about my brother that he began to open up. The more I told him, the more he told me.” He remembered the satisfied grin on the maniac’s face when he divulged his brother’s life to him, and the feeling of nausea he had felt at the time.

                “I did what I had to do, in order to keep my country safe” he finished grimly, and even he was not convinced that his excuse was good enough anymore. 

                The atmosphere had become a somber one, and Molly just sat there quietly, still fiddling with her cup, not looking at him anymore.

                “Are you angry?” he asked intrigued. “Do you hate me for my betrayal?”

                She then lifted her head and stared at him, her face expressionless. “Has Sherlock forgiven you?” she asked dully.

                Mycroft snorted. “Molly,” he chuckled, “my brother hasn’t forgiven me for ruining his Lego sculpture when he was 5.”

                She gave half a grin and nodded. _She probably got the picture._ “Are you sorry for what you’ve done?” she then asked, a bit more seriously. She didn’t seem angry, but definitely not pleased by the new bit of information she had just received.

                It was a surprising question though, and he didn’t answer immediately. He tried to find some go-around way of replying, apologizing to this woman for his actions felt a bit demeaning. “Yes.” _There, that should answer her question without having to actually say the ‘S’ word._  

                “And are you trying to make amends?” she asked like she was talking to a child who had made some blunder and was trying to find out if he had learnt anything from his mistakes. _Now she was just being annoying._

                He clicked his tongue. “I am…” he forced himself to answer, “…trying.”

                Molly then surprised him by smiling a genuine smile. “Then I have nothing to hate you for,” she said, content. “In all honesty” she added, “it’s really not my place to judge or criticize you for what you’ve done. Seeing as you acknowledge the fact that you’ve made a mistake, and that you regret it, I really see no reason to be cross with you. As long as you bring Sherlock back, I…” she broke off, and Mycroft watched as her face turned from agreeable to downright sad in just a fraction of a second.

                _Good Lord, his brother really did have quite a hold on her if her emotions could sway so easily whenever he came up in a conversation._ Sentiment really was nothing but psychological baggage, dragging people down and slowing their advancement. _How pitiful Molly Hooper was._       

                    But, as baffling as it was, hearing her say all of that had actually lifted some of the burden off his own shoulders, and for some odd reason, he felt relieved. He guessed he was a bit grateful to her for that. “I appreciate your understanding” he said a bit awkwardly, ( _thanking people was also not his area_ ).

                She smiled shyly and nodded without saying another word, and he watched her as she lifted her cup to her lips and drank a bit of tea. His eyes roamed along her frame; from her long wavy brown hair, to her large dark eyes, to her frail arms, to her pleasantly shaped breasts, to her thin legs…

                “You know,” Mycroft started, “you’re quite – “ But before he could finish his sentence he was suddenly interrupted by the ringing of the intercom. _Apparently her other guest had just arrived._

                He cleared his throat and began sitting up. “Well, I guess that’s my cue to leave” he said amiably. He got to his feet at the same time as she did and he grinned at her. “I hope our little chat was as pleasant for you as it was for me” he added as charmingly as he could.

                “Oh it was! It really was. Thank you, really!” She blabbered her thanks as she quickly made her way to the door and answered the intercom. “Yes? Georgie? Hi, come on up.” She buzzed her guest up, and then turned to face Mycroft again. “I really do appreciate you coming, and talking to me about… all of that” she said awkwardly.

                “Think nothing of it, Molly. Maybe we can do it again sometimes?” He stopped himself and frowned. _Where did that come from?_ How peculiar, Mycroft actually wanted to see the woman again. That hadn’t happened to him in ages. But he had to admit, idly chatting with Molly Hooper had proved to be more pleasant than he had anticipated.

                “That would be lovely!” she responded happily, opening the door for him.

                “Excellent! Next time I promise to announce my arrival beforehand. Goodbye Molly.” He shook the woman’s hand and turned to leave when he accidentally bumped into someone on his way out.

                “Ow, shit!!!”

                “Oh, I’m terribly sorry! Are you alright?” Mycroft apologized as he looked at whom he had just almost knocked over. He stopped short, eyebrows raised a mile up.

                He was gazing at a slightly older version of Molly Hooper ( _older sister, late thirties, career woman, desk job, divorcee, mother of 2 children, both under 10 years old_ ); their features were remarkably similar, but the older sister looked vastly more mature. She was taller and slightly broader, though she still had a pleasant shape to her body, which was very appropriately accentuated by the casual, knee-length, fashionable black dress she was sporting ( _wasn’t wearing a coat, came by car, job pays well_ ). Her hair was also shorter than Molly’s, shoulder length, recently dyed in a color almost identical to her natural hair ( _though a trained eye could easily notice the difference_ ) and styled flawlessly; their eye shape was identical, but instead of Molly’s dark brown color, hers were a lovely shade of dark green. All that, plus a pair of slightly fuller lips made the woman in front of Mycroft quite an attractive sight to behold. 

                He had not bothered to investigate Molly’s family too much; he had deemed it a large waste of time and effort. He had been wrong. It surprised him how much the two sisters differed from each other, and it reminded him of another pair of siblings with very few similarities that would not be named.

                “Is everything okay?” Molly inquired, looking nervously from her sister to Mycroft and back to her sister.

                “Yes, I’m fine” the older woman spoke, and he noticed her voice was an octave lower than her sibling’s. She then turned to face Mycroft and eyed him curiously. She grinned. “I didn’t know you had company, Molly. Don’t be rude now, introduce us!” she demanded.

                “Oh yes, right” Molly flustered. “Mr. Holmes, this is my older sister, Georgiana Hooper. Georgie, this is Mr. Mycroft Holmes.”

                “A pleasure.” He nodded politely and offered his hand.

                Georgie raised an eyebrow at the mention of his name. “Holmes? You mean as in…” she turned to her sister and gave her a questioning look.

                “Uhm, Mr. Holmes is Sherlock Holmes’ older brother” she explained skittishly. She was obviously quite nervous about the unexpected encounter. _She had most probably discussed Sherlock in detail with her sister, especially about her unrequited crush, as many women tended to do._

                “Oh!” the older Ms. Hooper exclaimed before quickly composing herself, taking the man’s outstretched hand and shaking it lightly. “I am so sorry for your loss, Mr. Holmes” she said, and she seemed genuinely regretful. “Molly’s told me many things about your brother, he seemed like a… uhm…” she paused frowning, trying to find the right words.

Mycroft suppressed a grin. If Molly had been honest about her description of Sherlock, then trying to find a positive adjective to match his personality should be quite a challenge.

                “He seemed like a very… interesting man” she said somewhat awkwardly ( _well, at least_ _she managed to dodge that bullet_ ). “Let me just say I don’t believe a word those bullshit tabloids wrote about your brother,” she quickly added ( _she had quite the mouth on her_ ). “You really shouldn’t pay any mind to them” she huffed indignantly, “the press will report anything to sell their papers, fact of fiction, it doesn’t matter to them. But I’m sure this whole thing will blow over soon, until the next gossip rears its ugly, scandalous head.”She finished and gave him an encouraging smile, which made her look even more charming than she already was.

“I appreciate your… kind words” he replied catching Molly’s eye, who looked like all she wanted was to disappear from the face of the Earth. “Now, I simply must be on my way” he added quickly. “It was nice seeing you Molly, and a pleasure to meet you Miss Hooper.” He bowed his head politely and turned to leave.

                “You too Mr. Holmes” he heard both sisters reply simultaneously, which made Mycroft smirk. _Maybe they weren’t so different after all_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. 
> 
> The song used was “In Love in Vain” written by Robert Johnson and performed by the incredible Nina Simone. If you can find this track, please listen to it while reading, it’s such a mind-numbingly gorgeous piece. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading, I hope you enjoyed it, and don’t worry, we’ll be back to Sherlock soon enough.


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